


Lazy Sweetness

by ensorcel



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/F, F/M, Femslash, Hanahaki Disease, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-05-15 17:23:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14794740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ensorcel/pseuds/ensorcel
Summary: Hanahaki Disease: the victim coughs flower petals when they suffer from an one-sided love. It ends when the beloved returns their feelings, or when the victim dies. It can be cured through surgical removal, but when the infection is removed, the victim’s romantic feelings also disappear.Andy's not sure what to make of the pink petals in the office. She's not sure what to make of anything, really.





	1. Boundless Tranquillity

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All rights reserved to Twentieth Century Fox and Laura Weisberger. Any characters recognized do not belong to me.
> 
> Many thanks to [zigostia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigostia/pseuds/zigostia) for saving this story.

_ “There is so much spring in the air—there’s so much lazy sweetness in your heart.” —F. Scott Fitzgerald     _

* * *

The Sachs family has always prided themselves on finding their soulmates early. Andy’s parents had met both in their early twenties, and wed weeks after. Her grandparents met at sixteen and seventeen respectively, and had a wedding beautiful enough to rival the Queen of England’s. And so, it is to no surprise of Elizabeth and John Sachs that, when their daughter is born, the small, elegant letters scripting out “Miriam” are gently etched into the skin right above the small hip, and they beam with pride.

An early tattoo meant an early soulmate. An early finding. And Andrea Sachs was meant to be no different.

Unlike her parents, Andy does not actively search for her soulmate. After all, fate should not be messed with at the best of times, and if she and “Miriam” are meant to be, Andy’s absolutely sure that fate will bring to be so. (This is beginning of her youth and naivety, and it is a trait that is doubtful to leave at the best of times.)

And it is with delight that she chases after boys—to the frowns of her parents—and kisses them to no tomorrow.

There is a whisper of a great disease on the way, and Andy wants to make the best of her time before it ends. Hanahaki, they murmur, from different sides of the world. Something to do with flowers, and Andy nearly scoffs at the insanity.

She takes great care to cover her tattoo, though it is not hard; never wearing anything that reveals the stomach, and soon, the name “Miriam” is like a gasp on the wind.

Rumours spread of a new disease, one with a difficult cure, impossible to control, and the first time Andy sees it, she is seventeen.

She watches, with a morbid fascination and dread, as her English teacher scrambles out the classroom, petals of a rose spewing from her mouth as she chokes on the failures of the human heart.

“This was before our time,” her parents explain, when she asks them about this mysterious “Hanahaki” disease. “Find your soulmate, and you will not have to experience it,” they urge, ignoring the smears of lipstick at the collar of her neck, and a blatantly hastily buttoned-up shirt.

Andy smiles, nods, and escapes to her bedroom, rapidly typing in into the search bar, as results of “death”, “no cure”, and “heartbreak” flash before her eyes. She slams the laptop shut, and Andy makes a vow: to never find her soulmate.

At twenty, she is the first to break the Sachs’ tradition, and runs away to New York City to chase big dreams of journalism and soft callings of a boy named Nate. They are highschool sweethearts, following each other to college, and beginning to make a home for themselves in the concrete jungle.

Neither of them bear the other’s name, but Andy is starting to believe that soulmates don’t exist, that it is a ploy by God to mess with their minds, and ignores the burning tragedy of the midnight black ink on her left hip. Their lips are hot on each others, and Andy’s hands wander over the “Marissa” written over Nate’s right bicep, and he gently kisses the “Miriam” on her hip.

Whispers of _Hanahaki_ haunt her mind, and she ignores Nate’s whines and pouts.

* * *

It seems New York is much harsher than she’d imagined, back in college. She sends letters out everywhere, and gets one single reply: Elias-Clarke. There are flowers everywhere, she first notices, and wonders, if life is truly meant to mock her. However, like bees in a hive, the workers show no experience with Hanahaki; no one seems to even have a soulmate, in this building. A bright red-haired screeching girl (whose hair colour was definitely not that naturally) snaps at her, and Andy nearly stumbles over her feet, feeling terribly out of place, with her burning tattoo and crooked shoes. She quickly blows out her bangs, and straightens her shirt, hoping that she looks presentable enough. It’s just fashion, anyways, she thinks. Just clothes.

Shouts of “Miranda this!” and “Miranda that!” runs past her ears, and Andy cannot help but wonder who this infallible “Miranda” is. Editor?

“Who’s Miranda?” slips out of her mouth, and Emily looks at her as though she was a piece of dog shit on the ground.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that,” she haughtily proclaims, and lifts her chin higher than before, if that was even possible. “Miranda, is Miranda Priestly, Editor-In-Chief of Runway magazine!”

It seems that Runway is a cult that fashion people follow, Andy guesses, and she is led into a massive office, modern glass covering from head to toe, and impressive art lining the pale walls. It screams intellect and importance, and Andy knows, that this is Miranda’s office.

Once Emily spells through the affairs of this Runway magazine and the bald man—Nigel, Andy believes his name is—calls for panic through the building, in walks a woman with striking white hair coiffed in what Andy even knows must be thousands of dollars to hairstyling, and a black coat with fur details—how many animals did she kill for that?—and heels higher than Andy’s future.

Her tattoo burns.

Miriam, she thinks.

Her heart skips a beat.

It bursts.

Her tattoo burns.

It burns, Andy thinks, but she ignores the pain, along with the flutters in her chest.

Her eyes scramble over the well-dressed woman who must be Miranda, whom Emily scampers around to please, and Andy’s eyes widen. She nearly drops her bag.

Miranda does not notice her, and sweeps into her office with a whiff of—lavender? Some kind of floral?—perfume. She misses the words Miranda quietly utters to Emily, making the British girl squeak and tremble in the room in terror.

“She wants to see you,” Emily hisses, snatching her by the arm with pinching fingernails. “She won’t want to see this, it’s vulgar!”

She wrenches Andy’s briefcase out of her hands, as Andy sputters in indignation. She nearly trips on her way into the office, as she takes a closer look at Miranda, with a purple—dark purple?—shirt with a open—boat neck? Is that what they called it?—and dangling red earrings.

Her heart skips another beat, and Andy is too shocked to fabricate any words.

This cannot be Miriam. Her name was Miranda, after all? Wasn’t it?

Her tattoo burns traitorously.

It cannot be.

It cannot be, she repeats over and over, like a mantra. It cannot be.

But as she takes in the gentle slope of neck, sharp cheekbones, and ice-cold blue eyes, a small part of her believes. Believes this, “be”. (But even in a world of soulmates, it is never guaranteed that your soulmate will bear your name, and Andy is almost sure Miranda is married.)

Miranda looks over her glasses at her with such an unimpressed stare that Andy deflates almost immediately. Hanahaki whispers in the back of her mind, and she can’t silence it.

Andy stumbles through her words and leaves a little infuriated, a little detected, and quite a bit frustrated. (Along with heartbroken, as much as she refuses to admit it.) As she’s walking through the throngs of well dressed, well manicured, and well spoken people of importance flitting around the lobby of the building, she hears her name being shouted by a snappy, British voice.

“Andrea!”

She swings her head around, and sees Emily beckoning her with a finger and an annoyed glare.

Andy beams, and follows the red-haired girl up back to Miranda.

Her tattoo continues to burn, and she finds that she does not entirely hate it.

* * *

Miranda is ruthless, Andy learns.

Her words are sharp, wrapped with a soft voice, deceiving like a fox on the hunt. But Miranda’s name burns right above her left hip, and as a gentle finger traces over the delicately printed letters each morning, Andy cannot help but feel glad that in the world of seven billion, there is one for her. (Even though she’s not sure if it’s her name that is etched softly into Miranda’s skin.) Her tattoo blazes every time the woman speaks, and soon, the pain is a constant in her life, like her job has become, and—though Andy doesn’t know at the moment—like Miranda will become.

After her interview, she scrambles home and madly types in the search engine “Miranda Priestly”, clicking on the first site popping up: her Wikipedia page. The first line gives her the answer to her question: _Miranda Priestly, born Miriam Princhek,_ and Andy knows.

(She already knew, but Andy is smart enough to learn that there is a difference in knowing, and knowing.)

She wonders if Miranda knows too, and she wonders, when Andy’s name appeared onto the porcelain skin, and where the marking lies. (She wonders if it burns like Andy’s does.)

But Andy does not ask, for she is just stumbling in this job, just barely able to keep her head above the water. Perhaps when she has gained the ability to swim, she will ask.

And first, before she is even thrown into the sea, she must acquire.

Fashion is not just a word, Andy learns. It is a business, an industry, one that is not meant to be scoffed at. (She learns the hard way, for the last one.) And with fashion, comes Miranda. Her coffee is meant to be perfect, or jobs fly out the window. The flowers set on her desk are never to be yellow, though canary tulips are allowed. Clear vases are sneered at, but porcelain ones are not. Miranda likes peach, though she’d never admit it, and she likes her meals simple, because, like Andy (for Andy understands) there must be some consistency, as much as Miranda likes to be unpredictable.

When Nigel drops the pair of heels that Andy does not yet realise are beautiful, and drags her into the Closet with him, her tattoo burns brightly. Nigel only sniffs and says, “Your Midwestern traits” when Andy insists on changing in the changeroom.

She finds that impressing Nigel is hard. (Though not impossible.)

She finds that impressing Miranda is even harder. (Though, also not impossible. She finds this out when she drops the seemingly-impossible Harry Potter book on Miranda’s desk with a satisfying pop, smug smile, and an “anything else, Miranda?”)

It is also then, that Andy decides that Miranda perhaps doesn’t hate her as much as she’d thought she did.

And so, Andy continues to learn. To adapt to the glass fortress without flowers or tattoos or any indication of a love other than one for the silver-haired queen who sat upon the throne. For Andy must learn to be cunning and ruthless and ambitious.

(Some might say she already is.)

But her tattoo remains, and the name burns in her skin, as new as the day she was born.

* * *

The petals appear slowly. Andy thinks that Miranda has been ordering new flowers, some type of—rose?—Andy’s not sure. Small, pink delicate petals are scattered over the marble floors of Miranda’s office when Andy steps in, at promptly 6:00 AM. Andy gives a small gasp, and quickly bends down and cleans up the mess, begging that Miranda wasn’t in yet. Oh, how Miranda Priestly loved to be unpredictable! The petals lie softly in her hands, and at first glance, Andy believes it to be of a rose, but the shape isn’t the distinct flower that her mother grew in her gardens.

The news is spattlered with reports of Hanahaki and whispers of deaths, but in Runway, in the seemingly unstoppable glass fortress of Miranda Priestly, it was a place that even love could not touch.

Until now.

Andy has not ordered this particular type of flower, and she knows that the light pink of the delicate petal is forbidden on any type of flower, whether it be rose, tulip, or chrysanthemum. Emily does not touch the flowers—even she knows that Andy is better at that—and Miranda does not keep flowers sent to her. Other than ones from her husband, (Or so Andy believes.)

She quickly sweeps the mess from the floor and dumps them into the trash bin, pausing as soft noises come from the executive bathroom in Miranda’s office. Andy freezes.

The coughs come again.

Her heart stops. Her feet stop.

She freezes.

(Her tattoo burns, and she knows.)

Andy tiptoes into Miranda’s office, gently placing the magazines in her arms on the clear desk. There is not a sound. Even her heels are muted by the soft carpet, her breathe stuck in her lungs. She does not dare utter a word.

Petals litter over the desk, and Andy thinks they’re from the roses in the vase.

(She is wrong.)

Quickly sweeping the petals—soft, delicate, beautiful—from the desk, she sneaks back to her desk, waiting patiently, as the door creaks open, and the sound of a heel clicks onto the floor. She forces her hands to the keyboard, rapidly typing in her password, and staring at the screen as though it were the most important thing in the world.

_Please, please, please, don’t be Miranda in there,_ she begs, even though she knows she is wrong. If it is not Miranda, who else?

Anyone else. Anyone else, she pleads, as her tattoo burns at her hip.

Andy forces a smile onto her face, and folds her hands on the table.

“Good morning, Miranda,” she chirps, as though it isn’t even light out, and it isn’t possible for Miranda to look this good at 5:00 AM. Her hair is neatly curled in her usual coif, with a black blazer—board meeting—gold detailing at the hems, five—six, maybe? Perhaps four and three quarters—inch heels, and slim, tight-fitting pants.

Miranda looks at her strangely, her face contorted into an expression Andy has yet to see; something with her lip quirked up and her eyebrows raised. There is no evidence of a flower existing anywhere, and Miranda looks as though she could be walking the runway of the images she places in her magazines. Andy forces her smile wider, surely knowing that it is brighter than the sun.

The editor stalks out of the room, heels somehow still ticking in the carpet floor, and Andy is left in the office alone, as she usually is, flowers scattered around her, and a choking sensation in her lungs.

* * *

The petals have become a constant. Andy tries not to think about it, and goes home every night to fuck Nate through the mattress. She knows it’s wrong, to use him like this. He does not deserve it, but she tells herself, isn’t this what he is doing with her too? They, after all, bear other’s names on their skin, with careful letters that do not match each others. Andy tells herself this, like she tells herself that Hanahaki doesn’t exist within Runway, that the spreading epidemic is kept from the glass castles of the magnificent magazine.

Miranda Priestly, is, after all, untouchable. Isn’t she?

The disease comes to the queen last, the reign falling. The small before the large.

But real life is not like the storybooks Andy has read throughout childhood, and New York is not the romanticised journey of flying through clouds as college had once told her. She traces her tattoo each night and tells herself that it simply is not possible for Miranda Priestly to be little Miriam painted in the darkest of blacks right above her left hip.

Andy eventually finds the name for the flower of the petals littering Miranda’s office. Emily does not ask, merely sneering at Andy, as though she is the cause for the mess. (She can’t be, couldn’t it? It simply couldn’t.)

When Emily hands her the key to Miranda’s house for the book, she beams with pride.

“Well, I did something right, didn’t I?” she says, barely able to keep the joy of out her voice. Emily sneers, and rubs her eyes. “I’m not a total psycho.”

But Andy is beginning to think she is, with the petals scattered everywhere, as the pink slowly progresses to a deep red.

The third night she delivers the book, she hears the coughing again.

Freezes again. Settling the book on the small counter with the delicate white tulips she had ordered for Miranda two days ago, and caruelling the dry cleaning into the closet, she slips back on her heels, and dashes away into the night. She can’t seem to get the scent of Miranda’s perfume off her shirt, or the feeling of her breath on her shoulder from her skin. Nor can she scratch off her tattoo, as hard as she tries.

Giving Nate a quick kiss of promises of later, she pulls out her laptop and Googles “Hanahaki disease”, madly typing it into the search bar on her shanty keyboard. Results of “currently incurable” and “no cure found yet” pop up again, as they had months upon months ago when the disease was no more than a whisper on the wind. Her tattoo burns and her heart taps, remembering Miranda’s white blouse and tight black pants.

A queen, ready to conquer the world. Ready for her citizens to fall at her feet.

A queen, ready to fall.

To surrender.

Andy slams the laptop shut, and flounces into the bedroom, grabbing Nate by the pants, and unzipping them. She shoves him against the head frame, kissing him wildly on the lips. She smiles, and nips at his ear. “Ready?” she whispers, and he moans into her shoulder.

As he traces her tattoo, she fingers his, following the elegant letters spelling out “Marissa” on his bicep, and falls asleep in his arms.

She does not remember wishing they were Miranda’s.

* * *

Her hand brushes with Miranda’s. When she is cleaning the petals and setting down the coffee, her forefinger touches Miranda’s palm, beautifully smooth and soft. Andy nearly drops the cup in surprise, and gives Miranda a quick smile, along with an “anything else?” slipping from her mouth. Her tattoo continues to burn, and she ignores the fact that the petals are no longer red, but purple.

Andy knows nothing about the symbolism of flowers, but after today, she’s sure to check once she’s got the time. Surely, there is nothing more to this—whatever it may be—with Miranda. Surely, the petals are not Miranda’s.

Miranda is _married,_ for god’s sake.

Married, with two nuisances of children.

But when references of deep red and purple flowers represent unrequited love, Andy’s tattoo throbs, and she wishes she could rip it off.

Handling the Book is officially her duty now, but when she finds Miranda in the library, about to set down the Book, glass of scotch in her hand and midnight purple petals surrounding her, Andy cannot find it in her to leave. She quietly places the Book on the table with the blue canaries she prepared the day of, and looks Miranda in the eye.

The editor does not seem to notice, and Andy silently picks up the many petals, sweeping them into the elegant trash can to the left. Miranda is loungued across her couch like the models she prints in her magazine, the sweater slipping off a shoulder leaving a mass of milky white skin.

Andy’s heart thumps, and it is the only sound in her eardrums.

She delicately takes the glass from her boss’s hand, and sets it with a tick on the coffee table. This seems to wake Miranda up, shaking herself out of trance. Her eyes are so terribly blue, Andy thinks, and she cannot take away the feeling of Miranda’s hands on hers.

“Andrea,” Miranda says, staring her directly in the eye.

Andy knows her queue when she hears it, and silently bows out of the room, slipping on her heels, fleeing out into the night. The New York air stinks, but the delicate taint of sandwood, ash, and lavender remains in Andy’s mind, never to leave.

She wishes to take away Miranda’s pains, her worries, and her sorrows. But her tattoo burns, and she wonders if some people’s soulmates do not share their name on their skin. She wonders if she is one of these people, destined to fall for a love ever to be returned.

(She wonders if Miranda is also one of these people.)

* * *

Three months after she discovered the flowers, and three weeks after she found Miranda in her library, glass of scotch in her hand, she hears Miranda’s quiet voice call her into the office. Gently slipping off her heels, and padding quickly to the door, setting aside the dry cleaning and holding the Book like an offering to the Devil—it might’ve been—Andy slides through the door, a quiet “Yes Miranda?” coming off her tongue.   

There is no trace of a flower in here, no indication that the species of a flower exists, and now that Andy thinks of it, she does not believe that Miranda has asked her to order flowers in the past week. No disdained pink, red, or purple petal lies within these grounds, and Andy is starting to believe that another one will never grace the floors. Not if Miranda has a say in it. Perhaps she was wrong, in thinking Hanahaki had finally infiltrated Runway, taking the queen. Perhaps she had guessed wrong, and it was merely just a spilled vase and quickly cleaned up water.

But as she watches the slope of Miranda’s neck and the curve of her shoulder as Andy hands her the book, the elegant coif of hair drooping in front of her eyes, Andy knows she is wrong. Runway may not hold any evidence of a soulmate beyond its doors, with its workers never holding more than a stylish tattoo, Andy knows, that the insurmountable glass castle has began to topple.

When Miranda asks her to replace Emily for Paris, Andy is not surprised, not in the least. But her heart aches for her colleague, whom she knows Paris was the ultimate goal. Andy makes feeble protests, half-hearted whimpers, and scampers off as quickly as she can, shoving on her shoes and wandering through the busy streets of late New York, her heart pounding in her chest. Her tattoo burns.

She remembers Miranda’s delicate skin, ravishing jewelry, and manicured nails. She thinks of Miranda’s elegant shoulder, her pale tone. Miranda’s voice floats in her mind, soft, but as cold as the midnight rain. A swirl of fury, resent, and disappointment burrows inside her, and Andy isn’t quite sure what to do about it. She shoves it aside, allowing the feelings to stir, to boil, and when she calls Emily the next morning, she begs that the redhead doesn’t pick up. (Miranda also throws her coat—Dior, navy blue—onto Emily’s desk.) Andy’s not sure what to think. Or do. Or say. So she doesn’t do anything at all. No “Good morning, Miranda” slips from her lips, and the office is eerily silent.   

Emily picks up.

“Emily?” Andy asks, trepidation evident in her tone. She wants to duck underneath the desk. As Emily rambles on about forgetting to grab the Hermes scarves, Andy runs through her mind about how to break it to Emily, until she hears the scream.

“Emily?”

There is no answer, and the line goes blank. Andy panics.

Miranda calls her in and a list of demands hurl from her lovely, pale pink painted lips, and Andy nods vigorously in agreement, her feet scampering her out of the office at lightning speed. She wouldn’t be able to see Emily until the work day was over, and as efficient Emily was, Andy doubted she would be able to come in for work after being hit by a car.

When she finally manages to slip out during her lunch break, she speaks in hushed tones and ashamed whispers, though a voice, eerily like Miranda’s, nags in the back of her mind: _You were the better one. You were more competent._ After all, who’s going to pick up Miranda’s petals? Surely not Emily.

The redhead rages at her, rightly so, and Andy leaves a little dejected, a tad regretful, and quite a bit lonely. She makes it back to Elias Clarke in record time, and meets Miranda’s long list of requests at the speed of lightning.

Andy gets home much after eleven, and Nate has already gone to bed. She is too tired to take a shower, and collapses on the bed, in full on couture, thanking God it was the weekend.

* * *

When Andy finally manages to find the time to smash into the search bar what type of petals belonged to the flowers scattered across Miranda’s floor, she spends a few hours glued to her screen, digging relentlessly for the unknown species.

Flower after flower flies before her, and none of them seem to match. The pink is never pale enough, never bright enough, just never enough. She doesn’t find the red anywhere, and the petals are too often too small, too round, or not round at all. The stems are too stiff, too flimsy, or too thin.

Nothing seems to match, and Andy wonders if she’s going crazy. Perhaps this job was too much. Perhaps the flowers had simply been a shitty gift from Stephen that Miranda accidentally knocked over.

But when Andy finally stumbles upon the middlemist rose at 3:00 AM, tiredly browsing through the results on results of flowers, she knows.

Middlemist, she reads.

When Nate blows up at her the next evening, she is too tired to care. To listen. To argue. They were not meant for each other, for they did not bear each other’s names on their skin, but Andy cannot help but feel a sense of regret, of failure. For the name Miriam is etched upon her hip, and Marissa on his arm. (She cannot help but wish they were a fairy tale of two lovers who could not be, but were.)

She cannot look Nate in the eye, and leaves the alleyway in tears and a bruised pride in her throat.

* * *

Paris shines of too brightly lit lamps, loud proclamations of love exclaimed on the streets, delicately fallen snow, and soft scents of wine wafting through the air. There is no evidence of flowers, and Andy is almost completely sure that she’s going insane, until she hears the quiet coughs of Miranda from the other side of the wall in the hotel. (They should be soundproof, but Andy’s not sure if anything that should will be anymore.)

Paris is absolutely beautiful, Christian will never let go, Emily is not here, and Miranda is as demanding as ever. None of this will change, Andy knows.

She thinks.

But Paris is beautiful, Christian will never let go, and Emily is not here, and Andy is about as free as she can get. She is beginning to understand Miranda’s passion, Miranda’s love, for fashion. The models are not the superstars, they do not wear the clothes—the clothes wear them. They are an empty canvas for designers to paint and display their art upon, and as dresses of every colour imaginable flies before her eyes, Andy is nearly able to let it go.

She understands, the work, the time, placed into this art. Into this practice, and she nearly scoffs at her attitude nine months ago.

In this world of love, elegance and grace, in this small corner of the planet, seems untouched by Hanahaki. But even Andy isn’t naive enough to know that the flowers on the street aren’t thrown from windows in declarations of passion, and the soft petals in Miranda’s hotel room aren’t from accidentally knocked over vases.

So when she finds Miranda in a delicate grey robe, bare face, tearing eyes, and a splattering of petals around her, Andy shouldn’t be surprised. Nine months as Miranda Priestly’s assistant should prepare her for this. (Clue: it did not.)

The petals are the same shade she last found them, scattered around Miranda’s townhouse before she had known what type they were, and the name “middlemist” shouts in her mind. The vibrant, deep purple bursts from the neutral shades of the room, but it is Miranda’s eyes that shine the most.

Andy knows she should leave. Like she should’ve left when she walked in on Miranda’s and Stephen’s argument. But Andy, Andy, could not take the hurt in the editor’s eyes, and her legs sat her down on the plush, expensive chair across from her.

Miranda begins to speak, lamenting upon the loss for her daughters and the leaving of her husband. The words soak into her, but Andy cannot help but notice how soft Miranda’s lips look, and she wonders, where her tattoo is.

_Where her tattoo is._

Funny, isn’t it, when Miranda is pouring her heart out—or as much as “pouring” is for Miranda—Andy is beginning to realise hers. Miranda coughs, and Andy freezes up again, like she did at what seemed a lifetime ago, when she first saw the petals. Her heart sinks. Her tattoo burns.

But no petal comes from Miranda’s lips, and her eyebrows raise, her eyes boring into Andy’s. (They are so blue. So, so, terribly blue.)

Andy moves on intuition, her mind following her burning tattoo, as she slowly slides from her seat, and onto the ground, gently taking Miranda’s hands. Her skin is soft, and Andy wonders what her lips would feel like. Wafts of silkwood and lavender float in the air as Andy subconsciously rubs circles onto Miranda’s hands. Her hair glints in the moonlight, shining in through the intricate windows, and to Andy, this is like a fairy tale. The Eiffel Tower shines in the backdrop, and the sweet French air drifts into the room, mixing with the editor’s perfume. Andy looks hopefully to Miranda, and reaches a hand up to touch her face, delicately wiping the tears from the soft skin.

She is shaking.

“I’m going to kiss you,” Andy whispers, because this is confession for them and them alone, and feels Miranda’s nod against her hand. Andy gently presses her lips to Miranda’s, tenderly kissing the woman, aromas of Miranda, Paris, and the air surrounding them. She places a hand in Miranda’s hair, and is not surprised to find it just as soft as her skin. Miranda slowly kisses her back, hands pulling Andy in. Her tattoo burns alongside her heart, and she wonders if it’s the same for Miranda.

She tastes salty tears on her tongue, and pushes Miranda down upon the loveseat, tenderly kissing the tears away.

Miranda breaks away first, and Andy understands why. She must. Miranda watches her with sad eyes, and sits up as nobly as she can on the chesterfield, lipstick smeared across her mouth.

Andy grabs her bags and flees.

Tears run down her cheeks, and she cannot find it in her to wipe them away.

* * *

Nigel’s promotion flies past her ears, and she places on her best “happy” face for him—she truly, truly, wishes she could feel as happy as she should; it’s Nigel, for god’s sake. They pop open the champagne, and Andy toasts him to his new job, a smile plastered over her face, but she cannot forget Miranda’s soft lips and elegant hair.

When Christian asks her out—she knows a line when she hears one—she doesn’t ask why, and joyfully agrees. His eyes are bright and his tone is joking, along with the fact that he has a stubble and his hands are rough. (He is nothing like Miranda.)

She drinks too much, agrees too much, and talks a little too loudly. When Christian pushes her up against a lamp in the quiet streets of a corner in Paris, she cannot find it in her to say no. His kisses are rough, sloppy, and tastes like wine, but so does hers, and he leads her to his hotel.

Andy fucks him through the mattress, listening to her name being screamed from his lips, and imagines Miranda’s face on his.

When she sleeps, she remembers Miranda’s lips and soft hands, and nothing more.

* * *

Andy wakes up in a foreign bed, with new scents, and nobody beside her. She groans of the headache from being hungover, and nearly tumbles out of bed, feet flying on the floor. Christian walks out with a towel around his waist, and Andy really hopes he isn’t into shower sex.

A flash of purple catches the corner of her eye, and she nearly bursts out laughing. Teasing Christian—he nearly looked, sheepish?—about all the talk for not worshiping Runway, until she realises she doesn’t recognize this copy at all.   

The purple should have been a thrown off from the beginning, and quite ironically, the last place Andy had seen that colour was in Miranda’s hotel room, on delicate, beautiful petals of a middlemist rose.

“What the fuck is this?” she asks, her voice nearing on an edge, but she’s not sure if it’s because she’s tired, or hungover. Probably both.

“A mockup of Runway magazine when Jacqueline Follet is in charge,” he boasts, and Andy’s not sure if she wants to slap him on the face or throw the magazine out the window. Also, probably both.

She nearly sprints into the shower to clean herself off, can’t believing she had dishonoured Miranda for a slightly decent fuck.

“What about Miranda?” she inquiries, but she already knows the answer.

“Miranda is a big girl. She can handle herself,” he breezily says, and wags his caterpillar eyebrows at her. She gags, and begins to shove on her dress, shoes, and scarf. He protests and she says something in response that leaves a slap-like look on his face. Andy scampers out of the room as fast as she could, nearly tripping in her heels. Stabbing the speed dial on her phone, she calls Miranda.

_Please pick up, please pick up, please pick up,_ she begs, as she dashes through middle-day Paris, looking as though she was something the cat dragged in. The call goes out, and Andy scrambles her way through her mind, trying to remember what Miranda had today.

Shit.

A meeting with Irv Ravitz.

Andy runs as quickly as her heels allow her, dodging people left and right as she makes her way to the hotel. She’s surprised the doorman even lets her in, dressed like she is. The secretary is too intimidating for someone who’s just supposed to answer calls and slot appointments, and it is with much difficulty that she makes it to Mr. Ravitz’s room, banging frantically on the door. She punches her speed dial again, begging Miranda to pick up. The call, as usual, goes out, and she swears underneath her breath, once again pounding hectically against the expensive, elegant gold-decorated entrance.

It finally opens, and the words are on the tip of her tongue, but Miranda is faster. Much faster. (Like always.)

The ice-blue eyes glare at Andy, scanning her up and down, seething.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she bristles, her voice low and demanding. “Get out, now!”

“Miranda—” The door slams in her face, and Andy nearly collapses against the wall. She reluctantly sulks out of the hallway, waiting right outside the secretary's desk, tapping her foot impatiently.  

Miranda seems to be in there forever, and Andy cannot help but remember the softness of Miranda’s lips on hers, the scent of silkwood and lavender, wafting through the air. She’s almost completely sure there will be no more of that anymore. Almost completely. Absolutely sure.

The click of fast heels on the marble floors snap Andy’s neck up, and she scampers over to Miranda, the words slipping out of her mouth like lightning. Miranda asks her about the flowers—the first for that, and Andy nearly trips over her words, and her heels.

“What?” she sputters, as her eyes rapidly scan the the room, her nose sniffing the air. “Freesias? No, I specially asked them—”

Miranda cuts of her off, once again.

“If I see any freesias, or smell—” she spits, smacking her silk gloves into Andy’s grasp, and running a hand through her hair. Andy nods frantically, and watches, dejected, as Miranda walks away, her heels clicking away on the marble floors, as quickly as she came.

* * *

 Andy smoothes a hand over her dress, quickly dashing out of her room, swiping up her bag, to meet with Nigel in the hallway. She beams a smile at him, and his eyes are twinkling with delight. He holds out his arm for her, and she gracefully holds it.

“So,” she begins, unable to keep the joy out of her tone, for today, it is not about Miranda. It is about Nigel. And his success. “The big day,” she mocks, giggling a little. He smiles, and shoves her to the side.

“The big day,” he repeats, keeping his voice bored, but Andy knows better. He is nearly shaking with excitement, as he fiddles with his ring. Andy beams him another smile, clinging onto his arm.

“You deserve it,” she says. “You deserve it so much.”

* * *

“Everybody wants this,” Miranda proclaims, her voice the same old soft whisper. Her perfume wafts in the air, the silkwood and lavender drifting. But Andy does not notice. “Everybody wants to be us.”

Andy freezes.

She realises, that the people she had tried to save Miranda from, that Miranda is no better. She watches as the elegant woman places her large, expensive, Chanel sunglasses on, and gives her a wicked smile. A beautiful, wicked smile.

Andy wants to throw up.

Because if she’s not going to have anything but her integrity, if she’s going to be blackmailed into the depths of hell, she will take it. Because she is not Miranda. 

And so she does.

Her tattoo burns. Her heart does too.

But when the car stops, and when she steps foot out, the polluted French air assaulting her, her soul feels free. Glancing once more at the woman who cried over her children, her mess of a marriage, the woman behind the businesswoman, Andy steals the scene of Miranda rapidly turning around for her, and it is then, that she dashes through the busy streets of downtown Paris, running her way to the fancy fountain with the water spewing out of it.

Her phone rings.

She smiles, and tosses it into the water, the satisfying drop ringing in her ears.

It may have been the worst decision in her life. But it may have also been her best.

* * *

Shoving whatever she can into her suitcase, dutifully packing all that she had borrowed from Runway—everything, essentially―she carefully labels the laptop and the files required to be sent back to Emily with all the notes for Paris, the adrenaline sweeping through her body. Her hands shake, but Andy doesn’t believe she has ever felt so free in her life.

Scrambling around the room, she peels off her heels, and replaces them with the dull, battered flats she wore on the first day of her interview. Funny, how life works.

Nearly about to leave, she takes the small bag that actually belongs to her, with just her passport—Runway had taken her life, and it was time for her to take it back.

Until she spots the petal.

The lonesome, single, pink petal lying in Miranda’s room, sitting patiently as though it was waiting for someone to find it. It stands out from the room, Andy notices, and is as soft as silk.

Middlemist, she remembers. (She also remembers Miranda’s tears, delicate lips, and pounding heart.)

Middlemist.  


	2. Want Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hanahaki Disease: the victim coughs flower petals when they suffer from an one-sided love. It ends when the beloved returns their feelings, or when the victim dies. It can be cured through surgical removal, but when the infection is removed, the victim’s romantic feelings also disappear._
> 
> Andy's not sure what to make of the pink petals in the office. She's not sure what to make of anything, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: All rights reserved to Twentieth Century Fox and Laura Weisberger. Any characters recognized do not belong to me.
> 
> Many thanks to zigostia for saving this story.

_"The greatest things in the world clothe themselves in boundless tranquility." —Boris Pasternak_

* * *

 Andy places an arm around the young man, his gold-blonde hair glinting in the flashing lights of photographers flanking them right and left. His skin is soft, and as she gently places her lips against his cheek, she can’t help but remember.

But the thing is, she can’t. Doesn’t seem to remember.

Her tattoo burns, but she ignores, and doesn’t remember a time where the sensation was welcomed.

Her smile shines brightly against the blinding lights as his arm wraps tighter around her waist, and she gladly welcomes it, her smile growing wider until she thinks her lips will crack. She ignores the shouts of “Anthony” this and “Anthony” that, along with the constant question of “Who’s your girlfriend, Mr. White?”, pinning her eyes to the wall across from her, her tattoo pulsing on her hip, and her heart drumming in her chest. She should feel ever-so-lucky, to be on the arm of Anthony White, of all people. However did little Andy Sachs from Connecticut end up with Anthony White?

She wonders if Anthony can hear it; the quickness of her breaths, thumping of her heart, and burning of her tattoo. But his quiet words whisper into her ears, and she allows herself to believe that in this moment, she is happy.

As happy as it gets.

So, she ignores the tightness of his arms, the strong scent of his cologne, and pretends that she doesn’t wish it were lavender and silkwood. Pretends that she has forgotten, that she doesn’t remember. (Because who forgets Miranda Priestly?)

Who leaves Miranda Priestly?

(Andy Sachs, and three other husbands.)

Therefore, it is no surprise to her, that when she spots the halo of elegant white hair in the distance, she is not surprised.

She cannot afford to be.

The sharp silhouette of her pure white dress should wash her out, but it doesn’t. The pale skin on pale fabric shouldn’t work, not at all, but if Andy were to remember anything from her nine months and little more from Runway, it would be that Miranda Priestly is never outshone by a dress. Unlike the models whom she always judges, Miranda is not the canvas. She is the art. She wears no jewellery, no twinkle at the ears, nor glitter at the neck. For a moment, Andy is back in her six-inch heels, the beautiful Armari dress—that one definitely wore her—and right beside Emily, watching as Miranda swept down the stairs in all her glory. She wore Valentino that night, and Andy’s almost completely sure that this bright white concoction that shouldn’t work but does, is from the same designer. Custom-made, no doubt.

Andy merely sees a glimpse before the editor is gone, just like that, and she ignores the pulses of her heart and burning of her tattoo.

She clutches harder to Anthony’s arm, smearing an even brighter smile across her face, and braces her eyes for the blinding lights. She is happy, she reminds herself. Happy. Employed at the New York Mirror, and dating one of the handsomest men she has ever met.

Happy. She thinks about taking Anthony home to meet her parents.

She forgets the flower petals and soft coughs.

* * *

Her makeup is pristine, she knows. But her feet wander to the washroom, politely excusing herself from Anthony, slipping away down the hallway. Her hands shake; she’s not sure why. She clutches her bag, and sweeps into the restroom, forcing herself to breathe in and out as she places her hands on the sink. As she looks around, she notices that this restroom is sure worth more than her entire degree. The clean, clear-cut marble walls shine around her, and as the unflattering bright lights glare onto her skin, Andy carefully brushes the smudges of mascara below her eyes, and retouches her lipstick. Fluffing her hair and taking a deep inhale, she freezes.

Coughing.

Quiet, graceful coughing.

As though she is in a movie, Andy slowly turns around to the stall where the gentle sounds are coming from, and notices the single, light pink petal lying on the marble floors. The coughing returns, louder, and much harsher. Smoothing out her pristine dress with a nervous tick, she lifts the hem, careful to make no sound with her heels.

She stops.

Taking one last, long look at herself in the mirror, she knows that she’s done. Done with Runway, with fashion, with Miranda Priestly, of all people.

Her heels clack loudly on the immaculate floors, her dress flowing behind her, ignoring the burning of her tattoo and pounding of her heart.

The door swings closed behind her.

Taking a deep breath, painting a glorious smile on her face, Andy gently places her arm through Anthony’s, beaming and charming her way through the elite upper class of New York City.

The thought of Miranda is never too far from her mind, but she forces herself to forget the wafts of silkwood and lavender, clinging to the strong cologne of Anthony instead, promising herself that yes, this is what she wants, this is what she was desired—he’s much better than Nate anyways—and this is the fairytale Andrea Sachs has always dreamed of.

Doesn’t everyone want to live the dream?

(Andy’s not so sure.)

Not anymore.

But!

Wait!

Andy clings onto the strong arm of Anthony as Miranda Priestly in her too-bright-really-shouldn’t-work dress strides over, giving fake pleasantries that Andy knows have been rehearsed over a million times, along with forced air kisses—

Miranda is walking straight towards her. A delightfully-evil grin spreads over her lips, and whatever Andy had thought in the restroom—forgetting Miranda’s perfume, Runway, Miranda—flies out the window faster than a cheetah on a hot summer day. Andy freezes, her smile still plastered over her face, and arm clasped onto Anthony’s. The buzz of multiple shots taken beforehand is beginning to wear off. Or it’s just Miranda. It’s probably just Miranda. Just Miranda Priestly.

“Andrea,” she crows, the magnificently beautiful grin spread across stubley painted lips. Anthony looks at her in surprise, his eyebrows raised at her.

“You know Miranda?” he asks, smiling at the editor.

“I do,” she replies, keeping her voice as steady as possible. Forget, forget, forget.  _You’re done with Miranda Priestly._

Miranda greets her with her signature air kisses, and Andy has to keep herself from stumbling over her heeled feet, thinking about how Miranda has not changed, as wafts of silkwood and lavender surround her.

“Andrea was my former assistant,” Miranda says, facing Anthony. “Lovely to see you again. How is your father?”

Andy drones out Miranda’s query to her boyfriend’s father. She thinks about kissing Anthony, and how it barely even compared to Miranda’s soft lips. Catching a hitch in her breath, she politely excuses herself with strange looks in her direction and Anthony’s quiet “are you alright” murmured into her ear. Nodding quickly, she sweeps herself from the crowd and grabs a glass of champagne off the tray of a bellboy, gulping the entire thing down before she reaches the balcony. She grabs another, and does the same. Wonders if there’s anything stronger.

Taking in the musty, New York City air that might as well feel like the fresh countryside, Andy leans against the banister, hanging her empty glass as the sights of the elite, upper class of the city’s views sweep her off her feet.

“I hope that reference didn’t turn you into an alcoholic,” a voice says from her behind her, and Andy nearly tumbles in shock. She spins around, her hair almost coming undone.

“Miranda!” she exclaims, her eyes widening. She quirks an eyebrow at the editor, holding her glass micrasously in her hand. “I’m surprised Runway didn’t turn me into a drunk,” she shoots back, and wonders if this was the alcohol speaking, or has she become bolder with time?

Miranda narrows her eyes at her, but was that a smile—an honest-to-god genuine smile—tainting on the editor’s lips? Miranda merely hums, and joins Andy at the banister, leaning against it, the dazzling bright white of her dress contrasting beautifully with the night views of New York. The woman eyes Andy’s glass, and she flushes a bright red, bringing the glass back over the railing.

“Might’ve killed someone with that,” Miranda muses, looking down at her glass as Andy beckons for another bellboy and grabs a flute of red wine, wondering if Miranda would be mad at her if she spilled it over her dress. (How drunk is she?)

Miranda looks at her—curiously? Sharply?—Andy’s not sure, but with some type of expression that she hasn’t seen before, not even during her days at Runway. Andy downs the glass in one gulp, wiping messily at her lips, knowing her makeup is smeared.

The doors close behind them, and Andy realises that Miranda must’ve spoken to the bellboy some time during her shot.

“Surprised you haven’t murdered me on the spot,” Andy slurs, settling her glass on the small table to her left. Miranda gives out what seems to be a snort, one as ladylike as possible, and leans further against the railing. Andy doesn’t notice.

“Imagine the papers,” she chuckles, staring straight at Andy with the same expression as before, the one that Andy couldn’t quite place.

“Dragon Lady, finally killed the lamb,” Andy says, gesturing her hands above her in the motion of a large headline. She stumbles closer to the editor, close enough to smell the scent of her delicate perfume on the light, pungent city winds. Silkwood and lavender, Andy remembers. (Like she forgot.)

“Witty,” Miranda comments, taking a quick sip out of her glass, the red crashing with the elegant yellow.

“It’s good to see you,” Andy says, the words falling out of her mouth before she can control them. She wishes she had another glass of wine. Miranda turns to her, her glass no longer in her hand, and her hand no longer on the balcony.

It seems that nearly eight months after Paris, Andy has forgotten that her former boss is a very, very good looking woman.

The glow of the city that never sleeps falls like sunlight onto Miranda, settling the bright white of the elegant, off-shoulder Valentino gown, with her dazzling jewels sparkling in the dim light. Andy stills, and watches as Miranda slowly pulls her closer, grabbing her by the waist, her hands firm on Andy’s hip.

Her tattoo burns as Miranda’s hand wraps around it, and her heart beats so loudly she’s sure that the editor can hear it.

Then, ever so gently, ever so slowly—words that have never described Miranda Priestly until now—Miranda places her lips on Andy’s, and she’s absolutely sure that Anthony’s kisses don’t even compare.

Miranda tastes of bubbling champagne, ruined lipstick, and thousands of dollars. Andy sighs into her mouth and frantically kisses back, her hands messing up the signature coif. Her skin is just as soft as last time, and in that one moment, Andy lets herself believe that she’s back in Paris, with the French breeze wafting in through the balcony, and she doesn’t even care if the whole world was watching—this minute, this minute and this minute alone, is for Andrea Sachs and Miranda Priestly.

Miranda pulls back first, leaving Andy gasping for air. She sniffs quickly, pulling at her neckline as though she has something to hide—she really does—and fusses at her hair, styling it back to what it was before.

“I’m still married,” she whispers, so quietly that if Andy hadn’t been paying more attention, she would’ve missed it.

“I’ve got a boyfriend,” Andy replies, her voice clear and crisp on the wind.

And, as they say, that was that.

Miranda flees off the balcony as fast as possible, her heels clicking against the pristine marble floors, her bright white dress flowing behind her. Andy places a hand against her lips, and picks up her now-empty glass.

Taking one last look at the night sky with its man-made lights and busy lives swirling left and right, Andy sweeps out, leaving only her cheap perfume in her wake.    

* * *

When plasters of posters with Miranda Priestly’s face all over them appear in the hallways of the New York Mirror, Andy is not at all surprised. Not even a bit. What’s fame if there’s not some type of notoriety to it? However, when her eyes quickly skim the headlines as she rushes to hit a deadline, Andy is a little less not surprised. Images of the snowy-haired sovereign on the arm of a silver fox at the carpet for some fancy event Andy has yet to dream of going to fly past her, making her stumble in her less-than-perfect flats and shaggy sweater. Her feet trip over themselves, and she has to keep herself from flying face-first into her boss.

“Going somewhere, Andy?” Greg jokes, grabbing her arms to save Andy from splattering onto the floor. Her cheeks tint bright pink, and she lets out a nervous giggle.

“Nope, just a deadline!” she replies, smiling brightly and muttering a quick “thanks” out of the corner of her mouth. Giving Greg a joking salute, she hurries down the hall, telling herself that Miranda Priestly is behind her, that she’s done with Runway, and why, why on Earth should she care that Miranda Priestly—the Ice Queen, of all people—is being cheated on by Husband 3.0?

Whenever, did Andrea Sachs start to care?   

(Answer: when they kissed on that beautiful balcony where anyone could’ve seen them with Miranda wearing that glorious dress.)

But what right did she have? Miranda’s divorce had apparently never gone through, and Andy was as happy as can be on the arm of Anthony White. It couldn’t have even qualified as a fling. Two kisses, one where she was completely sober and the other where she was just a little tipsy. (Tipsy can be argued.) But Andy forgets the petals in townhouses, hotels, and bathroom floors, and not for the first time in her life, Andy wants more.

She wants another kiss with Miranda. She wants to feel Miranda’s lips on hers, as she grabs the editor by the neck and kisses her into oblivion. She wants more.

But Andy, unlike Miranda, is accustomed to not getting what she wants. However, it doesn’t mean she isn’t willing to try.

(She’s happy, she reminds herself.)

She’s happy.

Isn’t she?

* * *

The next time they meet is two months later, where Andy is still on the arm of Anthony, and Miranda her husband. She hasn’t forgotten the softness of Miranda’s lips, nor the delicacy of her skin. The scent of the perfume never lingers in the air, but Andy can nearly sense it on the tip of her nose. Instead of a wide open balcony this time, it’s the washroom, and to Andy’s relief, there is no petal of a rose in sight. It seems as though the pale pink has wiped itself off the surface of the Earth.

Miranda’s in first, and her dress flows behind her as she gracefully walks to the marble walls. Andy follows, quickly excusing herself from Anthony’s small group of friends, her heels clicking on the pristine floors as she glances to and fro for anyone who could be possibly watching. It was Miranda Priestly, after all.

Seconds after she steps into the room, Andy is pinned against the wall, Miranda’s lips crashing into hers.

In the two months of nothing, nothing, and nothing, Andy has not forgotten how soft Miranda’s skin was, the gentleness of her hands and smoothness of her dress. Andy roughly kisses her back, her lips slamming into the editor’s. She tastes like gloss, wine, and cigarettes—Miranda Priestly smoking? Oh, how the world would wish to know.

She cannot help but think how Anthony does not deserve this. Whatever she and Miranda held between them—stolen kisses, fallen petals, whispered regrets—she couldn’t help but think of how soft Miranda’s lips were, how delicate her hair was, how her dress crumbled against hers.

“Miranda,” she breathes, her voice loud in the fraught, taught air. “Miranda—”

The editor kisses her harder against the wall, Andy’s hands completely messing up the carefully-styled white coif. When Miranda finally pulls back, Andy gets a good look at her. The makeup has been smeared off, though most of the foundation and concealer remained. The dark red lipstick was wiped across the cheek, and Andy carefully takes her hand and cleans up the mark.

Miranda opens her mouth, but Andy takes her gently by the back of her neck, pulling her closer, tilting her head, and delicately placing her lips onto the older woman’s.

“Shhh,” Andy mumbles against hot lips. “Allow me,” she continues, slowly kissing Miranda, allowing her mouth to trail down her neck, placing faint lipstick stains over the immaculate porcelain skin.

Miranda lets out a breathy moan, and Andy’s hands go deeper into her hair, grabbing her harder by the back of her head.

When she pulls back, she stares into bright blue eyes—ones that she would’ve thought were grey without closer inspection—soft lips, and skin as pale as the floors that surround them.

“I have a boyfriend,” Andy whispers, repeating herself from before.

“I’m married,” Miranda replies. Andy notices the lack of the world “still”.

“Congratulations,” Andy mumbles, her voice breathy off her lips. Miranda tilts her head, as though she was considering what Andy was saying. She probably was. And considering the way Andy dressed, the way her makeup was ruined, the way of how a lowly reporter like Andrea Sachs has ended up kissing Miranda Priestly not just once, not twice, but thrice.

Her tattoo burns on her hip, and she can’t forget pale pink petals on expensive cashmere carpets in the night French air.

“Thank you,” Miranda says, her voice calm and steady against the marble floors and walls.

And it is with the elegant click of her heels that she turns, walking steadily away from Andy, leaving Andy wondering if she’s one of those people that authors write tragic love stories for, the ones that don’t have anyone who bears their tattoo.

She wonders, if the pink petals are for her.

If Miranda bears her name carefully written over the perfectly smooth, pale, soft skin.

She doubts she’ll ever know.

* * *

Miranda hijaks Andy. Literally.

Three months after their third kiss, when Andy’s tattoo still burns tragically on her hip, she feels sharp nails clinging into her left arm, hard enough that she’s sure they’re leaving a mark.

She whips around, her hair hitting the face of her usurper, blinding them momentarily.

“What the fuc—” she yells, stopping herself once she meets bright blue eyes. Her mouth opens to say more, but Miranda drags her into her car with more strength than Andy had given her credit for before.

The soft leather of the seats moulds against her back as she slams into them, the feeling too close to her memory to be forgotten. For a second, she’s nearly a year and a half back, where Miranda is her boss and she had known nothing of petals and tattoos.

“What the hell, Miranda,” she snaps, snatching her arm away from the editor, glaring at her furiously. With the nails that had clawed her, she elegantly clicks the button for the shield to rise up. Andy meets Roy’s eyes with a frantic look, but the driver only shrugs, and continues on.

“What the fuck, Miranda,” Andy repeats, Miranda looking at her sharply.

“Language,” she says, but could it be, that Miranda Priestly’s voice was shaking? If Andy hadn’t been so annoyed with the woman she would’ve noticed more.

“Who the hell cares?”

Miranda doesn’t reply. Andy huffs, and throws herself back into the seats, slumping down in them.

“At least tell me where we’re going,” she mumbles, even though she knows she isn’t getting a reply.

She doesn’t.

Carefully checking her bag for her laptop and phone, making sure Miranda didn’t force her to drop anything, she fishes through papers upon papers, digging around for lipgloss to be at least mildly presentable to Miranda when she gives up halfway through.  

Andy sneaks a look at Miranda, one that she hadn’t been able to in the washroom three months ago. She looks good, as always. Very good. Dior today, Andy recognises, though she’s not entirely sure. Strong-cut blazer with well-tailored dress pants. Professional, sleek. Board meeting today, Andy notices. The neckline’s a little higher, hemline little lower.

Make-up perfect. As usual. Soft, pink lips. Gentle eyeshadow. Long lashes.

Andy pulls herself up, rearranging her alright-but-would-look-terrible-to-Miranda-Priestly outfit and placing her bag to the side. Tilting her legs to face Miranda more, she slowly pulls the editor in, placing a hand on her cheek, and carefully kissing her on the lips. Miranda tastes like lipstick and coffee, and Andy realises that she probably hasn’t eaten lunch or dinner today. Miranda gently kisses her back, but Andy pulls out right away.

“Where are we going, Miss Priestly,” she jokes, raising an eyebrow. (Her tattoo burns.) Miranda glares at her, but opens her mouth to reply.

“Townhouse.”

Andy’s eyes widen, more than a little surprised.

“The townhouse?” she says, wagging her eyebrows infuriatingly at Miranda. The editor rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t fix her lipstick, and that, Andy decides, is enough.

The car rolls up smoothly to Miranda’s swanky, hella-expensive house on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. The streets are quiet, for even in a place like New York, money can always buy you the illusion of being somewhere else.

Miranda steps out first, leaving Andy to follow. Her heels click loudly on the sidewalk, and as Andy makes her way up the steps, the lack of The Book and dry cleaning slung over her shoulders makes the feeling even more foreign than before.

Opening the door, Miranda ushers her in, and Andy hears Roy pull away from the curb. Scrambling, she sheds her coat and bag, frantically looking for a place to put them, but Miranda quickly takes them from her hands and hangs them up in the closet across from the one for the dry cleaning.

“I’m not that terrible of a host, Andrea,” Miranda smirks, watching Andy’s dropped jaw. Andy rushingly puts herself together, following Miranda into the kitchen.

As the editor reaches for a cabinet, Andy can’t keep her mouth shut.

“What am I doing here?” she blurts, her words loud and distant amongst the strong walls. Miranda freezes. She slowly retracts her hand from the cabinet, placing it methodically onto the countertop, drumming her fingers. Her nails clack on the marble as she looks at Andy inquisitively.

“What are you doing here, Andrea?” Miranda finally says, her voice quiet. “What are you doing here?” Her eyes avoid Andy’s, and she knows that Miranda isn’t asking her. Andy ignores the burning of her tattoo and pounding of her heart. She wonders where Miranda’s tattoo lies. (She finds she doesn't really care whose name it bears.)

Miranda does something with her eyes that Andy can’t quite describe, seemingly shaking herself out of something, and pinning Andy with a glaze that has never made her so vulnerable in her life. Gulping, she stands awkwardly at the entrance of the kitchen, absolutely sure she looks like she’s ready to run at any moment. Miranda notices, and smirks at her.

“I don’t bite,” she jokes, reaching once again for the cabinet and pulling out a glass of wine, tilting it slightly in Andy’s direction. “Alcohol?”

Andy stumbles her own feet walking into the room, her two-inch heels making the worst of her.

“Please.” Miranda hums, turning her back to Andy, quickly pouring the wine into glasses, and handing one to her. Nearly gulping down the entire thing in one shot, Andy places the glass back onto the countertop with a decisive tick.

“What is this?” Andy says, the wine already beginning to get to her. Good. “Because, as far as I know, you’re married, and I have a boyfriend.”

Miranda rolls her eyes. “As you’ve repeatedly said.”

Andy narrows her glaze at Miranda. “Seriously, Miranda, what the hell is this?”

Silence.

Andy can’t take it.

“It says ‘Miriam’ on my left hip.”

Miranda whips her head in Andy’s direction. She doesn’t say anything. Andy sighs, finishes her drink, and places it back onto the countertop.

“Thanks for the wine. I better get going,” she says, making her way through the hallway before sharp nails grab her arm again. “What now, Miranda?” she spits, wrenching her arm out of the editor's grasp.

“I didn’t know,” she whispers so quietly that if Andy hadn’t been straining her ears, she would’ve missed it. Andy scoffs.

“Of course you didn’t. How would have you known?”

Miranda drops her hand.

She coughs. Andy freezes. Miranda nearly drops her glass in the next cough, and Andy quickly catches it before it shatters to too-expensive floors. Andy’s eyes narrow. Her mouth drops.

She thought she was wrong. Clearly not. Like she had always wished, Andrea Sachs was right.

Grabbing her coat and bag, she scampers out of the door as fast as she can, but she didn’t miss the single, delicately pink petal lying on wooden floors, as though it had just fluttered there, perfectly in place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, it's been a while! Sorry about this slightly shorter chapter, but I hope to get the last one up soon. Let me know what you thought!


	3. Ancient Cypress Trees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hanahaki Disease: the victim coughs flower petals when they suffer from an one-sided love. It ends when the beloved returns their feelings, or when the victim dies. It can be cured through surgical removal, but when the infection is removed, the victim’s romantic feelings also disappear._
> 
> Andy's not sure what to make of the pink petals in the office. She's not sure what to make of anything, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: All rights reserved to Twentieth Century Fox and Laura Weisberger. Any characters recognized do not belong to me.
> 
> Many thanks to zigostia for saving this story.

_ “Want everything. Sky, wine, books, love.” —Leslie Kaplan, The Silence of the Devil _

* * *

She breaks up with Anthony. His world is too much like Miranda’s, and Miranda Priestly is the last thing Andy needs to think—or even know—about. She leaves behind twice-her-rent-fancy dresses, dazzling shoes, bubbling champagne, the New York high life. Truthfully, she should feel more regret. Andy Sachs had it all, the job, the boyfriend, the life. Two years ago, she wouldn’t have given this up for anything. Now, she was throwing it all away.

She ignores her tattoo, and has to keep herself from trying to scratch it off. Perhaps she could get it covered up. 

But “Miriam” stays on her skin as firmly and freshly as it did all those years before.

Forget about Miranda Priestly, she reminds herself. Forget, forget, forget. 

Then why, why the fuck, is she standing on the front porch of the extravagant townhouse? She shivers slightly as the cold air rushes against her face, and to the dismay of her common sense, she rings the doorbell, the sound drumming through her ears. 

Stamping her feet to keep herself a little warmer, she waits for the opening of the door, accompanied with the loud slamming of it afterwards. Dull footsteps come through walls, and Andy stills herself for the rejectment. Her tattoo burns, and she tries to forget about rose petals lying on polished floors in too-expensive buildings. 

The door slowly opens, with Miranda in long grey pants and an off-the shoulder cashmere sweater. Andy freezes, staring at the woman. Miranda’s face is wiped clean of makeup, her eyes wide as she notices Andy on her porch. 

“Are you insane?” she hisses, grabbing Andy’s arm, her nails digging into her skin. “What are you doing here?” 

Andy’s jaw slacks, still shivering in the cold. 

“S—sor—” 

“Get in here,” Miranda whispers, pulling Andy into the house, closing the door quickly behind her. “Are you out of your mind?” 

“Already asked t—that,” Andy squeezes out, giving a quavering smile to Miranda. 

The editor glares at her, eyes burning into Andy’s skin. She remembers the words “It says ‘Miriam’ on her left hip”, falling out of her mouth in this very hallway, and Andy has to keep the urge to scamper out the door. 

“Why didn’t you call?” 

Andy freezes. 

“I didn’t know I had the right.” 

Miranda takes a step back, looking at her—was that  _ shock, _ on Miranda Priestly’s face? 

“The girls are home,” Miranda whispers, but begins to take off Andy’s coat, hanging it into one of the closets. Andy slips off her shoes, padding slowly into the house, following Miranda into the kitchen. 

“Drink?” Miranda asks, already reaching for the high cabinets. This is too much like before, Andy remembers, her eyes slipping around the room. 

“Sure, whatever you have,” Andy replies, stepping closer into the room. The clink of wine bottles reach her ears, Miranda pouring out red wine that’s most likely worth more than her entire life, imported from all four corners of the world. 

Handing Andy a glass, Miranda leans back against the counter, facing her. Miranda tilts her head and slips her wine, pinning Andy down with an inquisitive look. 

“What are you doing here?” 

The question lacks the quietness and tone of the last time; Andy does not need to strain her ears to pick up the soft remarks of Miranda. There is a hint of—Andy wasn’t quite sure how exactly to describe it—curiosity, mischief, behind the words.

Andy smiles, trying to keep herself from gulping down her wine. This time, she’s going to be sober. (Though she’s not quite sure about Miranda.) 

“Abso-fucking-lutely no clue.” Her grin grows wider, with Miranda raising an eyebrow. “I don’t have a boyfriend.” 

The words slip out. 

Is that a smile on Miranda Priestly’s lips? 

“No boyfriend?” 

“No boyfriend.” 

Miranda taps her fingers on the counter, ticks bouncing off grand walls. Andy notices the distinct lack of gold around the editor’s fourth finger, the left hand. She also notices flower petals shoved underneath tables, and as Miranda follows her gaze, she nearly pounces on her arm before Andy even has the chance to speak. 

Andy decides to ignore it. Ignore the petals, ignore the fact that Miranda’s heart is failing her because she’s in love with a different person. One that didn’t—doesn’t—love her back. So she does what she has tried to do about Miranda for the longest time. Andy forgets. As though she held a brush in her hand, plunged with white paint, she goes back, and erases all traces of the pink, sometimes red, and once purple, flower petals scattered across the past two year remains of her life. 

“Shhh,” Andy whispers, placing a finger to Miranda’s lips. The woman looks back, surprised, but lets Andy place a gentle hand on her chin. “Let me.” 

Placing her lips softly onto Miranda’s, Andy takes in the editor’s signature perfume, silkwood and lavender, slowly pushing her on the counter. Andy’s eyes flutter slightly open, as Miranda delicately kisses her back. Trailing her mouth down Miranda’s neck, Andy nips at her ear, as Miranda’s breathy gasps echo in the kitchen. 

“Kids—” Kiss. “Are, they’re—” Kiss on her lips. “Home.” Andy grins at Miranda wickedly, her eyes twinkling. 

“Somewhere else, Mrs. Priestley?” 

“Never thought you’d ask,” Miranda breathes, gripping onto Andy, kissing her frantically back. 

“Lead the way, Miss Priestly.” 

* * *

Andy finds the tattoo two weeks later. She sucks in a breath, and Miranda pauses, looking down at Andy. She sighs, and looks away.

“I wasn’t sure if I should’ve told you.” Her voice shakes, as Andy coils away from the tattoo, beginning to clasp her bra back on. 

“You should’ve,” Andy says firmly, grabbing her shirt and shoving it over her head. Miranda sighs again, turning back around to face Andy. She fumbles with her heels, nearly tripping over her own feet. “Damn it!” 

“Andrea,” Miranda says. Pleads. (Or is that just Andy’s hopeful mind?) “Let me explain.”

Andy huffs, and turns her back resolutely to the editor. “I think you’ve said enough,” she replies, her tone cold, and hands shaking. Her feet propelling her out of the room, her heels clacking on wooden floors. 

“Andrea!” (Third time Andy’s walked out of Miranda Priestly.) Sounds of bare feet padding across expansive grounds echo after Andy, and she forces her way down the stairs. 

“I’m having the surgery this week.” 

Andy freezes. Her bag drops. Slowly turning around, she meets scared eyes and a barely-dressed Miranda, stripped of makeup and all the grandeur that makes her Miranda Priestly. Her hands are shaking, Miranda’s or hers, she’s not so sure. Both, probably. 

“What?” Her voice is loud in the silence of the hallway, the dimness of the lights shining on all the lines and creases of Miranda’s skin. 

“Stephen is divorcing me. My name is on him, his on me. Surgery’s already been booked,” Miranda sweeps out, calm, collected, cool. But is that her voice shaking? 

“Call me when you’re done,” Andy says, aghast, and storms out of the house into cold, freezing streets, rampantly calling a cab. Feelings of her fingers running over Miranda’s skin and eyes hunting over her tattoo, she leaves into the night, tears slipping out as memories of pink, red, purple petals implode in her mind. 

* * *

She takes the day off. Doesn’t wake up until two in the afternoon, and lounges around in her pajamas afterwards. Eats the almost overdue ice cream in her freezes, and drowns herself in Chinese takeout. Googles a list of the saddest movies to watch and blazes through them, forcing herself to cry. Crying means she’s feeling something, right? That has to be good on its own. Tries to forget about Stephen’s name scribbled across Miranda’s breastbone and fails. Tries to forget about Miranda and fails. Tries to forget about pink, occasionally red, and once-in-a-lifetime purple rose petals, but the white paint just flakes off, scattering down around her feet.

Hanahaki repeats in her mind, and she thinks about how Miranda is erasing her soulmate from her heart, and Andy wishes she could do the same. But Andy doesn’t have the disease, so that’s some consolation, isn’t it? (Answer: it is not.) 

Forcing herself off the couch, she staggers over to her absolute shitty-ass fridge and snatches her second last bottle of wine. Without bothering to grab a glass, she takes a swing from it, wiping the drips from her chin. 

Man, does this soulmate business suck. 

Two weeks, and Miranda doesn’t call. 

* * *

Miranda’s number is still on her speed dial. The digits have yet to leave her mind, along with her signature coffee order. Along with pink petals. And red ones. And a single purple one. Her tattoo crushes her heart, burning itself deeper and deeper into her skin each day. Not a day goes by without Miranda’s name being echoed in her mind, and when news of the divorce hits the stands, Andy is not surprised. Though, shouldn’t she be feeling some type of… happiness? Joy? Something, at least. She remembers Miranda’s soft lips on hers, Miranda’s delicate skin, and all that Andy has lost.

It wasn’t supposed to work, whatever it was, really. If there even was a “it” in the first place. Andy likes to think that at some point, maybe, just maybe, Miranda held her close to her heart as Andy did. That thoughts of Andy plagued her mind during the day. Did she find it hard to work? Focus with her daughters? 

A fleeting thing. A fling. (It couldn’t have meant something, could’ve it?) 

Too late to find it out anyways. 

Perhaps it is time to move on. 

She deletes the number from her contacts and speed dial. Move on. Right. 

* * *

Her tattoo no longer burns, and her heart no longer aches at the memory of French air and gentle proclamations. Miranda Priestly has become a flurry of a past in Andy, with the beginning spiralling out disastrously, with delicate hopes squashed between a bitter ending.

She finds that her tattoo is a story to be told to her children, of a love that was meant to be but never was, to be written in old history books of a soulmate system beginning to shatter. She falls back in love with her work, her sense of duty. Reconnects. Finds the parts of life that had been encompassed by Miranda falling back to her. Who says she can’t be happy on her own? Happy. She thinks. Happy, she is. 

If three months is too long for someone to get over a fling, then perhaps Andy has failed, but she finds that she does not hate as much as she had all those years ago. She works Monday through Friday, goes in when she’s called on the weekends, gets flying drunk with friends, and visits family. Perhaps this is not the life she had chased when she had hopped on a plane with Nate straight out of college all that time ago. But in this life, Andrea Sachs has found some semblance to happiness, and she’s not going to let it slip out of her fingers. Not this time. 

Until she gets the call. 

The shrill of the specific ringtone she had set for Miranda shatters her ears, causing her to nearly drop the phone, a whispered “Fuck!” crashing out of her mouth. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

It keeps on ringing. Rings out. Rings again. Her hands shake. Rings out again. (Moving on. Moved on.) 

She picks it up. 

“Sachs.” 

“Andrea?” Miranda’s voice sounds through on the other side, and that burning comes back. The aching comes back. All in a matter of seconds, it’s all back. The kisses, the whispers, Paris. Crashing back onto her like a thunderstorm she has never managed to shine away. 

She sighs, and rests her head in her hands. Everything hurts. “What do you want, Miranda?” 

The editor takes a shaky breath. 

“Would you—would you like to meet up sometime?” she stammers. Are her hands shaking like Andy’s?

The right answer would be no. The reasonable answer would be no. To refuse. 

“This week, or next, if that works for you?” Miranda continues. Andy’s quiet. “Andrea?” 

She hangs up, and blocks Miranda’s number from her phone. She’s done with this. Moved on. Right. Right. 

* * *

Two weeks later, Andy gets a knock on her door, loud, firm, and very prompt. She groans, getting up and shuffling to the door, knowing that it was Lily back for her watch. (She had forgotten it again, and had texted Andy about it right after she’d left.) Picking it up from the counter, calling out “Coming! I should just keep this damned thing!” as she makes her way to the entrance.

“Her—” She stops. What, for the love of fuck, is Miranda Priestly doing on her doorstep? The Prada coat and shoes stand ghastly out of place in her shabby, barely-affordable apartment in the Lower East side of Manhattan. Andy glares, anger beginning to bubble up in her. Her tattoo burns along with it. (So does her heart, but she refuses to admit that.) 

“What the fuck?” 

Miranda stands pointedly in the hallway. 

“May I come in?” Andy stares at her in disbelief. “You can pick that jaw off the ground, you know.” 

“What are you doing here? How do you know where I live?” Andy sputters, gesturing amaintedly at the editor. “What?” 

“We need to talk.” 

“There is no ‘we’ in this, Miranda. You made very clear of that three months ago,” Andy says pointedly, trying to keep herself calm. “You can go back to your expensive townhouse instead of confronting your repeated one night stand.” Andy begins to close the door, but Miranda reaches out, stopping her. 

“Please,” she whispers. “Can I explain myself?” 

Andy pauses. 

“What are you doing here?” She opens the door a little more.

“You wouldn’t pick up.” 

“So you came to my house?” Andy replies, glaring at the woman. 

“May I come in?” 

Just then, Andy realises that Miranda Priestly is at her shithole of an apartment, where everything is a mess, and certainly not ready for friends to come over, nevertheless the Queen of fashion. 

“Just—” she spits out, beginning to freak out, ever so slightly. “Give me a second.” She slams the door in Miranda’s face, a small sense of satisfaction settling in her, as she rapidly throws things into her room, closing the door on the mess, and trying her best to tidy up the living room as much as possible. 

“Come in,” she grumbles, as she finished, Miranda tentatively stepping in, as though she’s sure that Andy’s going to throw her out any second. (She’s not wrong.) “Have a seat. Wine?” 

Miranda settles herself onto Andy’s who-knows-how-old sofa, perching on it precariously. “Thank you.” 

It seems that when Miranda Priestly is nervous, her manners begin to slip out. 

Andy pours out two glasses of her most expensive wine—gift from a friend—into her nicest flutes, bringing them back to Miranda. She sits on the other side of Miranda, facing her. Forcing a smile onto her face, she slips her wine, trying not to down the entire thing. 

“So, what did you want to talk about?” she asks, keeping her voice perky. Miranda takes a deep breath, smoothing down invisible wrinkles in her skirt. Probably a calmer day at the office. The neckline is lower—three months ago Andy would’ve ripped the blouse right off her—skirt fitting just rightly around the waist, no doubt tailored and custom made, with dashes of gold at the ears and wrist. Her bare fourth finger on her left hand glares up at Andy.

“I’m no longer married,” Miranda begins, staring Andy directly in the eye, her piercing blue pupils diving straight through her. In all her time at Runway, Andy cannot remember a moment where Miranda had looked at her so intensely. It might’ve been that gay thing, or that affair thing, but whatever. Her tattoo burns, and her heart beats loudly in her ears. 

“So I’ve heard,” Andy replies, clutching onto her wine glass, and taking another slip. Are Miranda’s hands shaking or is she? 

“I, I had planned on calling a week after the surgery—” 

“Hold up. Surgery?” Andy asks, the word spinning in her head. Miranda clucks her tongue impatiently, tapping her fingers. 

“Yes. For that—flowers thing.” 

_ Hanahaki, Hanahaki, Hanahaki.  _

Images of her tenth grade English teacher sprinting out of the classroom as petals sprouted from her lips, choking on the failures of the human heart, flash by her, and pink petals slowly turning to red, to purple burn incessantly in her mind. She isn’t surprised. She knew, after all. What else that have meant? 

“So, you were in love—with, uh, Stephen?” Andy interjects, her voice wavering. Miranda pursues her lips, nodding tightly. 

“Yes. I was.” 

The words hang in the air, stale and untouched, as proclamations of Miranda’s heart floats into Andy’s mind. The use of past tense does not fly past her, and her eyes hungrily find Miranda’s. She’s tired, makeup slightly smudged, eyes dimmer. Andy’s tempted to gently pull down Miranda’s collar, to reveal the tattoo, but she knows it’s neither her right or place. 

“And you, you no longer are?” 

“Yes.” 

Andy slowly sets her wine glass on the counter, tilting her legs closer to Miranda. Taking Miranda’s hands, the softness of her skin bringing her back those years ago, in a fancy suite across the Eiffel Tower in the midst of Paris Fashion Week, with the French air floating in through open windows and remnants of flower petals littering the floors. She gently rubs circles onto them, Miranda looking down on her. 

Delicately sliding down the silk collar of Miranda’s thousand dollar Donna Karan blouse, she reveals the small name of “Stephen” etched into Miranda’s soft skin, the seven letters no longer glaring up at her, but in the sense of closure. An ending. Andy runs her finger over the script, soaking in each and every one of them. 

“I’m sorry,” Miranda whispers softly. Andy smiles, looking up at the editor. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you that.” 

“Don’t worry,” Andy replies, just as quietly. Outside, the loud lives of New York City pound through the walls, with the constant jams of horns, and people rushing to their problems, each as vivid and dramatic as the next. Her words roll off her tongue, floating out in the air, but unlike last time, they do not hang. “I’ll take you in any way you’ll let me have you.” 

“Okay,” Miranda says. “Okay.” 

And so, Andy kisses her softly. Miranda tastes of hints of red wine, hard days at work, and coming home to a waiting partner. Andy pushes Miranda onto the back of the couch, her mouth wandering down Miranda’s neck, and onto her tattoo. Lips meet every letter, tasting out the love Miranda wished she had but was never able to get. Andy tastes out the love she had never wished she had and might’ve, just might’ve, been able to get. 

Miranda pulls at Andy’s old t-shirt, with Andy tugging it off. (Of all the days she wore her shittiest bra.) Miranda sits back, just a little, staring at Andy. Then, kissing Andy once more, she pulls at her hair, running he perfectly manicured hands through Andy’s mess of a look. 

“Beautiful,” Miranda whispers, against Andy’s neck, as breathy gasps met both of their ears. “Absolutely beautiful.” Her hands wander down Andy’s waist, as her hips rock against Miranda’s. Somewhere along the way the editor’s blouse was also lost, with Miranda tugging at Andy’s shitty pajama shorts. Soft hands land at Andy’s left hip, and she freezes. Miranda stops, pulling back. 

“It says ‘Miriam’ on my left hip,” Andy says, repeating herself from who-knows-goodness-so-long ago. Miranda’s eyes soften, and she tugs Andy closer. 

“I know,” she replies, her breath hot on Andy’s face. The editor’s hands continue with Andy’s shorts, her fingers beginning to wander to Andy’s tattoo. It burns, burns, burns, but Andy, like she did when she was first hired at Runway, finds that she enjoys it. Welcomes it. 

Her heart beats loudly, and she’s almost completely sure that Miranda can hear it too. 

Miranda traces Andy’s tattoo, the soft pads of her fingers running over every single letter. 

“I haven’t heard that name in a while,” Miranda laments, and Andy knows that she’s not speaking to her. “But I’m glad I did.” 

Andy smiles. 

“Glad you did, too.” 

* * *

Andy finds that her life is painted in pinks, reds, and the single, occasional, purple. They weave through the story of her mishaps, successes, and joys. Miranda may not bear her name on her skin, but as long as the forever etched letters of “Miriam” remain on hers, she finds that she doesn't mind it so. Miranda had contemplated to remove her tattoo, having it covered up, until Andy blatantly refused; Miranda came with her tattoo, one that she too, might’ve had since the beginning of time. Of all people, Andy is perhaps, the best to understand.

Their lives together do not simply just work out, but Andy is just about as happy as can be. The twins are just warming up to her, she has yet to tell her friends, Miranda has yet to announce to the public. But the only petals on the ground are ones from spilled vases, and Miranda hates pink roses anyways. 

Because this is enough. 

Miranda may not bear her name on the vastness of her porcelain skin, but the words falling from her mouth matter more than this whole “Soulmate” business anyways. (However, it seems that Miranda thinks that Andy cares more about it than she does.) 

“What’s this?” Andy asks, pulling Miranda by the wrist. Her hands run over the veins, over the harsh ink against pale skin. 

Miranda turns a light pink, looking Andy directly in the eye. 

“It’s your name.” 

And it is. “Andrea” is painted in the darkest of darks across the inside of Miranda’s right wrist, scripting itself across the veins. Andy smiles, feeling her eyes burn up. Her fingers run over the ink, tracing each letter of her name. 

“You didn’t nee—”

Miranda places a finger to her lips. 

“I wanted to,” Miranda says, a smile spreading on her face. 

Miranda doesn’t need to say it, but Andy knows what she means. Her hand remains on Miranda’s wrist, as they stand together, in Miranda’s extravagant kitchen, side-by-side, underneath the twins’ bedrooms, above Miranda’s wine cellar, old tattoos and new. 

“Alright,” Andy whispers. “Alright.”

**FIN.**

> _ “Under ancient cypress trees, weeping dreams are harvested from sleep.” —Jay Hopler, Year _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, me updating somewhat on time? Thank you to all the readers who have been sticking with this story since the beginning, and to the ones who have recently joined. I had a great time writing this little ficlet, and hope to be bringing you more Mirandy in the future.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, there she is, back with another Soulmate AU! Don't worry, that's not the end—I'm planning to have two more chapters. No promise of when, but hopefully soon! Let me know your thoughts <3


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